Wolf at the Door
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Bedtime Stories missing scenes: Doc Garrison wasn't the only one who sacrificed for love.


**Wolf at the Door**  
K Hanna Korossy

The ringing of his phone startled Sam out of his sober audience. Doctor Garrison was still crying over his daughter, and it occurred to Sam belatedly that the grieving father probably considered him more intruder than sharer of his pain, even if Sam empathized with the man. He quietly backed out of the room, seemingly unobserved in his departure.

Once in the hospital hallway, Sam took a deep breath and dug his phone out of his pocket. _Dean _flashed in the caller window, probably his brother telling him the job was done. He opened the phone, husked out an oddly croaky, "Yeah."

_"Uh…this is Trevor N—"_ There was a murmur in the background, and even as Sam frowned, head dipping down to press the phone closer to his ear, he could have sworn the other voice was Dean. _"—uh, your brother says to tell you 'the wolf'? What…? Okay, listen, I don't know what's going on, but I…I think I beat your brother up pretty—"_

Sam opened his mouth to respond when he heard the rustle of movement, then Dean's weak voice. _"Sam? Don't listen to him, 'm okay, just…need a hand here. Three thirty-four Sycamore." _

Dean would and had claimed to be fine with multiple broken bones and a third of his blood volume on the outside of his body, so that in itself wasn't all that reassuring. Neither was the fact that he—that the _wolf—_was calling for help, or that Dean's voice was downright breathy after two sentences. "I'm coming," was all Sam answered, though, all that Dean needed to hear. Then he was stuffing his phone into his pocket and hurrying for the door. Garrison could tend to his own now.

By the time Sam reached the hospital main entrance, he'd resigned himself to necessity. Charming a ride out of someone, taking a taxi, even public transportation would leave witnesses and a trail to what was probably some kind of crime scene by now. No, might as well go all the way at this point, and Sam headed to the employee lot of the hospital. It would take longer for a car stolen from there to be noticed.

He made it in eight minutes—thank God for the GPS in the car he'd boosted—parking a few houses down and quickly wiping the car down, including the pedals. Then he dropped caution and ran.

The front door was, unsurprisingly, ajar, the lock smashed. Sam pushed his way in and then paused, taking in the scene.

Dean sat against the far wall, next to the remains of what looked like a china cabinet. Blood dripped down his forehead and his body was stiff with pain. A strange guy crouched next to him, and Sam was moving to plant himself between his downed brother and the man before he even thought about it. The guy was big, muscular and square-jawed, his hands and sweatshirt bloody. Sam's eyes quickly tracked to the tattoo on his biceps. The wolf. But like the voice had been over the phone, the figure that went with it was passive, confused, and he drew back as Sam headed their way. Sam's hackles went down just a little.

"Dean?" He gave the wolf—Trevor?—a wary look, then knelt by his brother, one hand already going to the bleeding head. "You with me?"

Dean's eyes seemed to take effort to focus on him. "Sammy," he murmured, mouth pulling up into a half-grin. "Took you long 'nough." And with that he promptly passed out, sagging forward against Sam.

"Dean," he groaned, pushing his brother back against the wall by first his shoulders, then a hand under Dean's chin. His vitals were good, and a quick scan showed no signs of blood besides his head, even when Sam peeled him away from the wall. He finally threw a narrow glance at the wo—_Trevor_. "What happened?" Sam demanded.

The guy's wide-eyed look of panic told him even before the guy opened his mouth that he wouldn't be much use. "I don't know, he just… Uh, I was… I don't know, it was like it wasn't me—"

"You were possessed," Sam said impatiently. He propped Dean's head with one hand against his jaw, the fingers of the other hand threading through the short blond hair, looking for the source of the bleed.

"Oh. Sure, yeah… Wait, seriously?"

Sam glared at him, just as his fingertip brushed something hard.

"Right. Uh, well, I…I think I kinda…threw him into a couple of cabinets. But it wasn't me, you know? It was like I was—"

"You were possessed." There was a chunk of glass jammed into Dean's scalp. Sam grimaced and pressed gently down on the skin next to it. Hardly ideal conditions for minor surgery, but he couldn't make himself take Dean back to their room this way, with a piece of a friggin' window sticking out of him.

Trevor fell silent, watching him in unhappy confusion.

The glass moved, then slipped wetly out. It was only half the size of Sam's fingernail, and the flow of blood from the now-open wound wasn't too bad. Sam yanked his tie off, twisted it into a loose compress, then pressed down.

Dean twitched, moaning, but his eyes didn't reopen.

"I'm sorry."

Trevor's quiet voice drew Sam's attention away from the examination of his brother. He turned back to the man, mouth starting to open in some form of reassurance, when a flash of red ducking out of sight at the far end of the room caught his eye.

Sam grimaced. He'd forgotten about Little Red Riding Hood.

"Can you hold this?" he said quickly to Trevor. "Right here." Sam directed the large hands as the guy moved uncertainly forward. Sam paused long enough to make sure Dean wasn't about to tip over, then shot to his feet and across the room.

Red pulled into herself as he got closer, and Sam hunched down, minimizing his height. "Hey, it's okay. I'm a policeman—you're safe now."

Teary eyes peered at him from over an end table.

Sam tucked himself down even more and smiled soothingly. "Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

One small hand went to her scratched cheek, but she shook her head.

Sam nodded. "All right, good. Listen to me, more officers are coming—I want you to go to your room and lock the door and wait there until they get here, all right? You'll be safe there, I promise, and they'll…they'll help you." Sam cringed a little at the thought of her dead grandmother. "I just need to go take care of the man who saved you now, honey, okay?" Wouldn't hurt to plant a few positive seeds in her head, fairytale heroes as well as villains. The good hunter, and Sam almost smiled. "Can you do that for me?" he asked kindly.

She nodded, timid, and scurried off toward the rear of the house.

Sam watched her go, then turned back to the sound of Dean's tired and irritable voice.

He was pushing away from Trevor as Sam returned to his side, eyes still a little more dazed than Sam was happy with. "Take it easy, Dean, he's just helping," he soothed as he took over the compress and pulled it back a little, gratified to see the blood flow was down to seeping.

"Sam, he's—"

"Was," Sam quietly corrected.

Dean squinted at him, then over his shoulder at the retreated Trevor. "Oh. Right." He shifted, groaning. "And you're here because…?"

"You called?" Sam said, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I did," Trevor interjected. They both turned to look at him, and Trevor raised his hands and slid back a foot. "Sorry."

Sam turned his attention to his brother. "Considering as soon as I got here you passed out, it was probably a good idea."

"I didn't pass out," Dean protested automatically. At Sam's glower, he sulkily added, "I was resting."

"Look," Trevor spoke up again, voice straining, "I don't mean to interrupt anything, but could somebody please tell me what's going on here?"

Sam met his brother's gaze. Dean nodded fractionally, then shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

So Sam did. The one-minute version of what's out there in the dark, and what had gotten into Trevor to, uh, make him a wolf.

The guy's thoughtful response was a stunned, "Oh." He stared at his bruised knuckles for a moment. "So, uh, that means everyone thinks I'm…"

Sam winced. "Sorry," he said earnestly.

"Right."

"We can help," Dean muttered from against the wall, eyes still closed.

Sam nodded. "It's not exactly what we do, but we've had some…experience with people like you. Come by our room tonight—I'll have some information for you, all right?"

He still looked stunned—and, yeah, Sam knew that feeling too well—but he nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

Trevor ended up helping get Dean out to the car, Sam offering his brother encouragement until Dean told him just what he could do with said encouragement. They agreed Trevor would lie low for the day, and Sam told him where to find them that evening. He tried not to watch the lost-looking figure in the rear view mirror as they drove away. The guy didn't even know what he was in for yet, and Sam hadn't had the heart to tell him just then.

He called the police next, sending them to Red's house, then flicked a glance at his brother. Dean had wearily pushed up from the door where he'd initially slumped and was dabbing blood off his face with grimaces and curses, using his silver flask as a rough mirror.

"Y'all right?" Sam asked low.

"Peachy," Dean muttered. "Friggin' fairytales."

"I'll drop you off at the room, then go check with Doc Garrison again."

Dean frowned up at him. "Why?"

Sam's eyebrow went up. "He just lost his daughter, Dean. Don't you think—"

"No, I mean, why drop me off?"

The other eyebrow rose. "Dude, you just got mauled by a human wolf. Go back to the room and—"

"I swear, man, if you make some Sleeping Beauty reference…"

Sam had to fight a grin back, succeeding only with the reminder that Dean wouldn't be incapacitated forever and he had a long memory. "Look," he tried for reasonable instead, "the job's done—this is just mopping up. I can do this alone."

The words hung between them as soon as Sam spoke them. They were too loaded, too close to home, and Sam swallowed hard. He wasn't used to censoring himself with his brother.

He turned the car west. "Hospital first," he amended quietly, and Dean didn't say a word.

00000

Sam had left the door cracked open for Trevor. Not that he was too worried about waking Dean; his brother was drugged to the gills and deeply under. But he still slept restlessly, tossing and turning, propped up in deference to his rainbow of bruises, and Sam didn't want to disturb him any more.

The hospital had been…exhausting. Garrison had been calm, accepting of his loss. Sam not so much when Dean had dared make the suggestion that Sam should let him go, too. His brother had always been too quick to write himself off, but this time the gentle way Dean had said it flared the fire of desperation in Sam. Right, just let him go, the guy who'd been more worried about the grieving doctor and Red than about himself, who'd been practically unconscious in the front seat when Sam had returned to the car but forced himself to stay alert to ask about Trevor. Who'd given Sam an apologetic smile before collapsing on the bed back in their room. He wanted Dean to worry about himself as much as he did others and knew it wouldn't happen, and it _hurt._

A soft rap jolted Sam's head up, and he blinked, then crossed the room in two long steps. It was already swinging open, to reveal Trevor shifting uneasily in the shadows of the open porch. At the sight of Sam, he straightened, chin rising.

"Uh, is now okay?"

"What?" Sam shook himself. "Uh, yeah, sure. Come in. Just keep it down."

Trevor glanced over at Dean as he walked into the room, and Sam saw a wave of remorse pass over his face. He couldn't blame the guy for Dean's condition, not without being a hypocrite, but his pity softened into sympathy.

"He's all right," Sam offered, and felt a little gratified when Trevor's face lightened.

"So…" The man stopped at the laden table Sam had walked to, rubbing uncertainly at the back of his neck in a way that reminded Sam of his brother. He talked quietly but tensely. "What do I have to do?"

"Disappear," Sam answered, also low, and reached over a small pile of paperwork.

Trevor blinked, hand dropping to receive the bundle, mouth going a little slack as he sifted through it. "Seriously? You want me to…what, just take off? Become this…Michael Licalzi?"

Sam looked him in the eye, voice soft but firm. "You have to. There's no way to explain possession to the police—they'll lock you up for three homicides if they catch you. The only way is to start over. Michael died when he was two months old—it's a legitimate birth certificate, and the death certificate was lost in a flood. If you don't do this, Trevor, you'll be running for the rest of your life."

Trevor's face had paled, and he sank into the chair by the table. "But…but I've got a six-year-old daughter here. I can't just…leave."

Sam stared at him, stunned. There was no ring on the guy's finger; he hadn't even considered… But there wasn't anything he could do or say to make this easier. Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry," was all he quietly offered.

Dean shifted behind them in the bed and slept on.

Long moments passed, Sam waiting patiently in silence. He was asking the man to give up his whole life, and it wasn't a decision to be made quickly. Not unless you were Dean.

Trevor finally took a breath and slowly nodded. "Yeah, okay." He looked up at Sam. "Better me disappearing on her than her seeing her old man arrested for murder, right?" His attempt at a smile failed. "Okay. Yeah, I'll do it, for Katie."

Just like Garrison. Sam's eyes stung.

The Possessed Protection Program 101 took about five minutes: advice, directions, the names of a few people like Bobby who could help if Trevor got in a bind or needed someone to talk to who understood. The fact he'd killed three people, even while possessed, probably hadn't even sunk in yet, and there was no telling if and when the memories would return. They wouldn't be pretty when they did; Sam had seen the pictures.

He didn't offer the guy his and Dean's contact information. God only knew where they would be a few months from then.

Trevor didn't seem to notice. When Sam was done and the papers were tucked into the guy's jacket pocket, he just hesitated, then put his hand out. "Thanks. For all you did. I'm sorry about…" His eyes ticked to the left, toward Dean.

Sam didn't hesitate to take his hand. "Good luck," he said sincerely.

Trevor—Mike now—nodded uncertainly and slipped out the door. Sam closed it after him with a heavy heart.

Dean murmured something in his sleep, drawing Sam's eyes to him, but settled just as easily. The gash in his scalp and the bruising around it wasn't even visible from there.

"God, Dean…" Sam murmured helplessly, shaking his head. He'd watched two fathers give up their daughters that day. Saw his brother, dazed and hurt, worry more about those two men, and Sam, than about himself. And felt selfish, so scared that he would be called on to surrender what was most important to him, too.

He couldn't do it. And not only because of what they'd learned about Azazel, his fear of facing his destiny alone.

He just _couldn't_.

But for Dean, there was something he could do.

Decision made, Sam moved with purpose. He quietly packed the few things he needed, the Colt tucked last of all into the top of the backpack. Sam paused a moment to pull out his journal, adding a line to the back before he tucked it away again. Then he moved silently to the door, casting one more look back at Dean.

His brother didn't move, deeply under. If Dean weren't drugged, he would've already roused, sensing as he so often uncannily did that his little brother was about to do something spectacularly risky and quite possibly stupid.

Sam almost smiled, jaw flexing with determination and pain. Then he turned and walked out the door.

They'd passed a crossroad on the way out of town.

**The End**


End file.
